


Brendon/Spencer story #1

by fictionalaspect



Series: Unfinished, Abandoned, Snippets, Bits and Pieces [14]
Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Class Issues, M/M, Male Pregnancy, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Brendon is a servant boy who is secretly in love with Spencer, the youngest son of the family estate. Brendon gets pregnant and has to hide the baby.</p><p>Yeeeeaaahhh. This is why I don't write historical AUs very often. I have a lot of trouble with the dialogue.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Brendon/Spencer story #1

**Author's Note:**

> Brendon is a servant boy who is secretly in love with Spencer, the youngest son of the family estate. Brendon gets pregnant and has to hide the baby.
> 
> Yeeeeaaahhh. This is why I don't write historical AUs very often. I have a lot of trouble with the dialogue.

Brendon woke suddenly. He blinked into the darkness, trying to figure out what had woken him up. Then there was the sound of a match striking, and a candle flame flickered into view on his bedside table.

"Wake up," Spencer whispered, and Brendon groaned into his pillow and rolled over. "Brendon, wake up, I've something to show you."

"Can't you show me after breakfast?" Brendon mumbled. It was an empty protest. Spencer's midnight surprises were usually something for just the two of them, and not something that would translate well to broad daylight.

"You know I can't," Spencer said quietly, after a moment. "Brendon, please. I'm sorry it's so late. I know Cook was hard on you today, but I—"

"It's fine," Brendon said, sitting up and blinking a little. He smiled at Spencer, already dressed in an old shirt and a pair of dirty trousers. His hair was tied back, and he'd definitely need to shave before the morning or Lord Smith would have his hide. Brendon never admitted it out loud, but he almost preferred Spencer like this. Spencer was handsome enough in his normal clothing, but there was something more _real_ about him like this, mussed and slightly dirty. "You look quite the part of a midnight daredevil. Let's get going."

—

Persephone was waiting for them outside, tied up to the fence-post outside the servant's quarters and grazing idly on a nearby patch of grass. Brendon tied his shoestrings together and then looped the pair of them over his neck, following Spencer out the window of his tiny garret. It was easier to climb in bare feet, and they'd found out the hard way that it was too risky to go through the rest of the house.

"Bareback, huh," Brendon said, when they'd finally jumped to the ground. Persephone raised her head under Brendon's hand, nuzzling into his palm. "You were in quite the hurry, I see."

"We'll be fine," Spencer said, leading her over to the gate at the far corner of the field. "She's practically a housecat, you know that. Just hold on to me. She won't throw us."

"When she spooks, I'm not explaining to your father why you've a broken leg," Brendon said, but he grinned and climbed on behind Spencer. He wrapped his arms around Spencer's waist, resting his head on Spencer's shoulder as he felt Spencer dig in his heels in slightly. Persephone perked her ears up, then began to trot forward.

The night was warm and muggy; the full moon rose overhead, lighting their way across the fields of the Smith estate. Spencer waited until they were past the brow of the hill and into the first copse of trees when he slowed Sephie to a walk.

"Hello," Spencer whispered, turning around to grin at Brendon. "Fancy meeting you here at this time of night."

"You're an idiot," Brendon laughed, but he leaned in to say hello to Spencer properly. It was dangerous, what they did. It was stupid and foolhardy and Brendon couldn't get enough of it. Spencer's mouth was warm on Brendon's, and he shifted a little to steady Brendon as they kissed.

"So is this your great surprise?" Brendon said, once they'd come back for air. "A moonlight ride to the charming backwoods of the Ross estate?"

"It's a wonder no one's ever beaten you for that mouth of yours," Spencer said wrly. His gentle tone took the sting out of the words.

"I suspect Cook wants to," Brendon said. "In fact, I suspect she'd like to beat me several times a day if she thought she could get away with it."

"Yes," Spencer said grimly. "And she knows what would happen to her if she ever so much as laid a hand on you." His tone was suddenly fierce, and Brendon hid a smile in Spencer's shoulder.

Spencer turned Sephie towards a path leading away from the Ross estate, one that led down into a sheltered grove. "I do have something to show you, you know," Spencer said.

"I know," Brendon said. Spencer never lied to Brendon if he could help it. Brendon suspected it was to make up for all the other lies, the tiny ones that made up their daily existence. For all the times Brendon had to pretend not to know what Spencer looked like when he was sated and half-asleep; for all the times Spencer was required to be cordial and yet distant to Brendon in front of his family, to show the proper attitude towards an indentured, orphaned servant boy.

"You'll have to close your eyes," Spencer said, hopping down off of Persephone and coaxing her forward. "Promise you won't peek until I tell you."

"Mmm," Brendon said. "What will happen if I do?"

Spencer grinned. "Nothing, probably," he said. "Except you'll ruin it for yourself and leave me heartbroken. Brendon, please. Just this once?"

"Only because I like you," Brendon said, and closed his eyes. He held on to Sephie's mane with one hand as not to fall off. He felt her step down, and then come to a stop. Brendon held his breath.

"You can open them now," Spencer said.

Brendon blinked. There was a picnic spread out in the clearing, a thick quilt and the fine glasses and china he'd packed for the family earlier in the day. [moar description]

"How," Brendon said wonderingly. "Spencer. Those were all left with the steward to soak." The set was worth so much that Mrs. Smith hadn't even wanted Brendon or Cook to touch them after the garden party was over, for fear of breaking a piece. "How on earth did you manage to sneak them out from under his nose?"

"I got my hands dirty," Spencer said, grinning widely. "I told him I'd take care of them, and threw in a bottle of Father's best whiskey to sweeten the deal."

"You're terrible," Brendon said, laughing. "A terrible heir to the estate, you know that?"

"I wanted—you deserved it," Spencer said quietly. "All afternoon. I had to sit and talk to those godforsaken people about politics and who's marrying who and I just—I would have rather been in the kitchen with you, washing dishes. And Cook was so horrible to you about the whole thing. I just wanted—to do this the right way."

"Spencer," Brendon whispered. He felt that familiar ache in his chest intensify, the one that he kept close to heart. "I don't even," Brendon said eventually. "Thank you."

"I love you," Spencer said. The words had a tinge of sadness to them, because they both knew Brendon would never say it back. Brendon nodded, instead, and kept silent.

"Let's have our picnic," Brendon said, trying to smile. "And then you can ravish me under the stars, like a proper gentlemen."

-

 

 _Three months later_

"Spencer," Brendon hissed, up to his elbows in soapy water. "Spencer _Smith_. Get _out_ of the kitchen, someone's going to see you."

"I don't care," Spencer said, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming. "You still look awful. Brendon, you have to see a doctor."

"I don't—I'm fine," Brendon said, swallowing tightly. He wasn't fine. His head ached, and he'd thrown up at least once a day for the past week. The smell of the kitchens made him nauseous. His brain felt like it was wrapped in a thick fog.

"You're not fine," Spencer said, putting one hand to Brendon's forehead. "You feel hot. Brendon, what if it's something terrible? I won't let you die on me because you're too stupid to—"

"Could I help you with something, Master Smith?" Cook said from behind them. Brendon groaned inwardly. Great. This was just what he needed today, another one of the servants asking prying questions about him and Spencer. Spencer's friend Ryan knew about them—and Jon, the son of the stable master—but even that was dangerous. Brendon's contract would be sold to someone else in a heartbeat if they were found out.

"Urie doesn't seem to be looking well," Spencer smoothly, drawing his hand away. He was using his best imperious tone, and Brendon was secretly grateful. "I noticed as he brought out the roast to the table. "

"Hmmph," Cook said, giving Brendon a suspicious look. "Well, boy? You feeling sick?"

"I'm fine," Brendon said weakly. His protest was marred by the sudden burst of nausea that rose up in his throat, and he gagged on a cough.

"Urie," Spencer said firmly, and Brendon looked up. "Your contract is a valuable investment for this household. I won't have you endangering it for the sake of the dishes." Brendon made a confused face at Spencer when he was sure Cook wasn't watching, and Spencer gave him a look that told him firmly that he needed to play along.

"I apologize," Brendon said humbly, bowing his head. "It won't happen again, sir."

"Go and get some rest," Spencer said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "I'll see to it that someone checks in on you. Cook, do you think one of the stable boys would be an acceptable replacement in the kitchen? Nigel's mother was a cook, I believe. He should know his way around."

"Probably better than Urie does," Cook muttered to herself. Spencer raised an eyebrow at her, and Cook's eyes widened, obviously surprised that Spencer had heard. "Of course," Cook said bowing her head a little. "We'll make do, Master Smith. You're too kind to us. I'll have Nigel sent for at once."

Spencer nodded and left without another word. Brendon took the opportunity to slip out of the kitchen unnoticed. His whole body ached, a strange feeling centered in his stomach and his bones. He was stumbling back to his garret in the servant's quarters when he felt a tugging on his arm.

"Meet Ryan in the stables tonight," Spencer said, bending down slightly to whisper directly into Brendon's ear. "I've sent him a note about it already. He'll be there."

Brendon rolled his eyes. He was sick, but he wasn't _that_ sick. "Ryan's a terrible Physic," Brendon whispered. "He barely even passed his finals. The last time I had a cold, he told me I'd a broken leg and then fed me a potion to cure heartburn."

"He's better now," Spencer said, grimacing slightly. "I promise. His stay in London did wonders for his technique. But I need to go," Spencer said. He looked up and down the corridor, and then squeezed Brendon's hand briefly. "Get some sleep."

"Yeah," Brendon said, shaking his head a little to clear it. The fuzzy feeling seemed to be getting stronger, and all he wanted at the moment was his bed. "Sleep."

—

Ryan was waiting in the stables when Brendon stumbled in, tucked cross-legged into one of the unused stalls with a lantern at his feet. He smiled when he saw Brendon, and then quickly sobered into what Brendon assumed was a sufficiently Physic-like expression.

"Oh come off it," Brendon said, grinning back weakly. "You don't need to be stern and proper with me. I've half a mind to accuse you of faking your marks."

"I told you," Ryan said. "That was _one time,_ Brendon. I'd mixed the potions wrong, and." Ryan looked uncharacteristically embarrassed for a moment. "Besides," Ryan said, getting up and clearing a space in the hay for Brendon to sit. "You weren't my only patient that day. I told Mrs Smith she was pregnant again, because she'd had all the signs and the tests came up positive."

"Ouch," Brendon agreed, wincing a little. "I suppose Mr. Smith pitched a fit when he found out you'd made a mistake?"

"He insisted I go to London," Ryan said, grinning again. "To _improve my technique,_ you know? And, I suspect, stay far away from his wife."

"So _that's_ why you left," Brendon said, snickering. "Just try not to kill me with your 'newfangled ideas' this time." The words ended on a cough. Mr. Smith was notoriously distrustful of Physics, maintaining that Ryan's chemistry and strange techniques probably did more harm than good. Brendon couldn't afford to be choosey. Besides, Ryan was Spencer's best friend, and despite his occasional mistakes, he could absolutely be trusted to keep a secret.

"That doesn't sound good," Ryan said, starting to unpack his vials from his beaten-up leather bag. "Any other symptoms?"

"Sick in the mornings," Brendon said, tipping his head back against the wall of the stall. "Tired. I feel like I'm walking around in a daze. Everything hurts."

"Hmm," Ryan said. He pulled out a number of small packets, and a mortar and pestle. "Fever?"

"Spencer thinks so," Brendon said. "He sent me out of the kitchens today, with an appropriately-timed lecture about protecting his family's valuable assets."

Ryan snorted. "More like _his_ valuable asset," Ryan said. He sobered for a minute. "He's really worried about you," Ryan said quietly. "You know he—"

"Ryan," Brendon said, cutting him off before he could say anything more painful. His head ached, and he didn't think he could take another well-meaning lecture about how much Spencer cared about him. No matter how much Spencer wanted things to be different, Brendon knew the way the world worked. "Just tell me what's wrong, okay?"

"Of course," Ryan said, after a moment. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, and set about rolling his sleeves up. "One new-fangled diagnosis, coming right up."

—

Ryan mixed and measured, handing Brendon small cups of things to drink and then studying his reactions. Being a Physic wasn't something you could just decide to take up; you had to have the knack for it. Ryan studied Brendon's hands, the color of his nails, the temperature of his skin. All of it seemed to be adding up to something in his head, but at the end of an hour Brendon still had no idea what was wrong with him.

"Here," Ryan said, handing him a cup of something dark and powerfully bitter. Brendon made a face at the smell. "I just need to rule one more thing out," Ryan said. "Just toss it back. I'm sorry about the taste."

"Yes, well," Brendon said irritably. "You're not the one who has to drink it." The liquid tasted strongly of anise. Brendon forced the rest of it down.

"Look at me," Ryan said, with that strangely intent expression he always got when he was working. He brushed Brendon's hair away from his forehead, and looked directly into his eyes for a long moment.

"You have a cold," Ryan said eventually, frowning slightly. "But—there's something else."

"Great," Brendon said. "Wonderful. Whooping cough? Influenza?"

"Brendon," Ryan said softly. "You're pregnant."

"Very funny," Brendon said. "I thought you told me you'd improved in London."

"No, it's—" Ryan fussed with the hem of his coat. "Brendon, I'm serious. Look." He picked up one of Brendon's hands, and Brendon's eyes widened. There was a stain on the inside of his wrist, a splotchy red dot that hadn't been there a few minutes ago.

"It will fade in a few minutes," Ryan said. "But I didn't mix these myself, Brendon. I'm absolutely sure."

"But that's—no," Brendon said, his stomach dropping. "No. It's been _years_ , Ryan, I thought that didn't happen anymore. Those tonics, the ones they give you at birth, they're supposed to—"

"But you were orphaned," Ryan said. His eyes were sad. "Maybe you never got it, Brendon. I don't know. All I know is that it's uncommon, but every once in a while it still happens. Some people, their bodies just—fight off the vaccine." Ryan paused for a moment. "And you know they only started that because of the lines of succession, anyway," Ryan said. Brendon swallowed. "If you never got the vaccine, there's—there's no physical reason why you can't be."

There was a rising sense of panic in Brendon's chest, a feeling of terror so strong he had to bite down hard on his tongue so he wouldn't cry out.

"Don't tell Spencer," Brendon whispered, his mind racing. He had to leave. He'd been hoping to put if off until Spencer was married, until he was happy with a partner of his own and had forgotten all about the kitchen boy, but—no. There was no way he could hide this. He couldn't risk it.

"I mean it," Brendon said, as Ryan opened his mouth to protest. "You can't tell him. I have to leave, Ryan. You know there's no other way."

"Brendon," Ryan said, his tone horrified. "Brendon, what are you—you _can't._ If you're caught, they'll send you to a workhouse, or worse."

"And if I stay, I'll ruin Spencer's reputation, and I'll still end up in a workhouse," Brendon said grimly. "Who's going to marry me, Ryan? Who would I marry? Jon? And then what do we do, in nine months when the baby looks just like Spencer?"

"You don't know that," Ryan said.

"I can't risk it," Brendon said miserably. He slumped against the bale of hay next to him.

"You need medical care," Ryan said carefully, after a few moments of tense silence. "If you leave right now—Brendon, you know what could happen."

"It might be better in the long run," Brendon muttered. Ryan smacked him upside the head. "Stop it," Ryan said, and his expression was suddenly fierce. Brendon blinked. "If you stay," Ryan continued, "Brendon—just, stay for a little while, okay? I can treat you here. I promise I won't tell Spencer." There was a thin note of hysteria in Ryan's voice, usually so droll and unaffected.

"Why?" Brendon said finally. Ryan was his friend, but he was also the youngest son of the Ross family. They were worlds apart, in more ways than one. Brendon couldn't understand why this suddenly mattered so much to Ryan.

"Because this isn't just about you," Ryan said, starting to pack up his things. "But right now, you need to sleep. Physic's orders."

"Fine," Brendon said tiredly. He still didn't trust Ryan's reasons, but his head was starting to ache again, a throbbing pain that traveled down his temple to the base of his skull. The thought of packing up all of his things, of leaving under the cover of darkness, seemed suddenly insurmountable. "But we're not done, Ryan. You won't change my mind."

"I know," Ryan whispered, almost to himself. Then he looked up at Brendon, his jaw clenched slightly. "Three months, Brendon. Promise me three months, and then—I don't know. There has to be a way."

"Everyone says that," Brendon said quietly. "And every time, it's always a lie." He turned back as he left the stall. Ryan was still standing there, holding the lantern and giving Brendon an unreadable look.

"It doesn't have to be," Ryan said.

Brendon shook his head. "Good night," he said softly, and turned to leave.

—


End file.
